Wednesday, January 8, 2014

DON'T LOOK NOW BUT—

We're still 
impaled—together 

out here—idling
stuck!

in our own white 
city's bright
and collective 
engine's morning uproar.

Stuck! and standing-
frozen-

still—while, 
hell and all- 
around us rush

not wheels
but 

cymbals—by which
I simply must

mean just 
the crashing sound of—

but here, wait;
and 
see; and
let's—
adjust! and—presently

be touched
to notice—an object;

any!
object's—vast 

variety, at last!
Finally
revealed by such 

wide or tiny 
movements,

not of itself, but 
instead,

of us—
its 

oh-so-
willingly down

and 
piteously out- 
bound observers.

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